Page:Maurine and Other Poems (1910).pdf/44

 Look to your laurels! or you needs must yield The crown to Semple, who, ’tis very plain, Has mounted Pegasus and grasped his mane.”

All laughed: and then, as Guy appealed to me, I answered lightly, “My young friend, I fear You chose a most unlucky simile To prove the truth of woman. To her place The moon does rise—but with a different face Each time she comes. But now I needs must hear The poem read, before I can consent To pass my judgment on the sentiment.” All clamoured that the author was the man To read the poem: and, with tones that said More than the cutting, scornful words he read, Taking the book Guy gave him, he began:

HER LOVE.

The sands upon the ocean side That change about with every tide, And never true to one abide, A woman’s love I liken to.

The summer zephyrs, light and vain, That sing the same alluring strain To every grass blade on the plain— A woman’s love is nothing more.

The sunshine of an April day That comes to warm you with its ray, But while you smile has flown away— A woman’s love is like to this.

God made poor woman with no heart, But gave her skill, and tact, and art, And so she lives, and plays her part. We must not blame, but pity her.

She leans to man—but just to hear The praise he whispers in her ear, Herself, not him, she holdeth dear— Oh, fool! to be deceived by her.

To sate her selfish thirst she quaffs The love of strong hearts in sweet draughts, Then throws them lightly by and laughs,